


Five Times Mick and Len Met the Leverage Team (Plus One Time They Hung Out)

by nirejseki



Series: Leveraged Interference [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Leverage, The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 5 Things, Crossover, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:24:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9815627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: “Len,” Mick says.He has that long-suffering ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’ tone of voice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Quasi-prequel to the other two parts. Inspired by a conversation with daughterofscotland.
> 
> Most of these incidents are later forgotten by all the characters involved before the start of 'The One Where They Steal an Arsonist'.

_ 1 – The Cup _

“Len,” Mick says.

He has that long-suffering ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’ tone of voice. 

“Yeah?” Len says, looking up from his plans.

He did not look up for his plans for nothing, but Mick’s ‘nope’ voice was one of them. Mostly because Mick’s expressions in the conversations that followed were usually priceless.

“I’m admiring your new laundry basket, s’all,” Mick says.

Len blinks. That’s strange. Laundry basket?

“Is this some way of saying I don’t put my clothing away?” he asks suspiciously. That seemed like a Mick thing – Mick was so _weird_ about eating vegetables and shit like that – but Mick usually tossed his shirt any which way too, so it didn’t _seem_ like…

“No,” Mick says, and points.

Len looks. It’s a pile of clothing hanging over…

“Oh, that,” he says, and looks down at the plans hastily to hide his grin.

“Len,” Mick says. 

“Very nice, ain’t it?” 

“ _Len_.”

“What?”

“Why are you using the _Stanley Cup_ as a place to put your _laundry_?”

“…well, honestly, I don’t really got much else to do with it.”

“ _Lenny!_ ”

“There was this woman boasting about how she nicked the Stanley Cup, okay!” Len finally exclaims defensively. “Going on and on about it – saying everyone else aiming towards it was just going for the copy-cat – so I found her stash and lifted it!”

Mick puts his head in his hands.

“What?” Len says, abandoning his plans entirely to cross his arms and glare at Mick. “I’m a klepto. And competitive. And, yes, sometimes petty as fuck. You know all this already.”

“Len,” Mick groans. “You telling me you located _Sophie Devereaux’s_ stash and the only thing you lifted was the goddamn _Stanley Cup_?”

Len’s lips twitch. “Well,” he drawls. “I wouldn’t say that was the _only_ thing…”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_2 – the Conference_

“Best of care, I promise,” a deep voice says from downstairs.

Alec glances up to his door, which he deliberately left slightly ajar. He always did when people came calling on Nana – she was as in-your-face as you could get, whether it was with lawmen or the local mobsters, and sometimes that mean the kids needed to take care of her. Kids like Alec. 

“I know, I know,” Nana says. “I’d do it myself, you know that, but it’s so far, and there are all the others to think of –”

“Relax, Etta; you leave it all to us,” the deep-voiced guy says. “We’ve got this.”

“We got you that computer rig, didn’t we?” another guy drawls – his voice is lighter, more tenor than baritone, and _wow_ , that was a hell of a Central City accent this guy had. Alec hadn’t heard that sort of accent outside of, like, cartoons. “He liked it, right?”

“Very much,” Nana admits. “Said it was just the specs he wanted...oh, all right.”

Alec has just enough time to wonder what she’s agreed to – and if it’s going to cause any problems – when she bellows in her best you’d-better-listen-up-and-listen-now voice, “ _ALEC!_ ”

Alec’s halfway down the stairs before he even knows what happened. 

He’s just happy that he remembered to put on pants this morning.

He pokes his head into the kitchen, where Nana’s sitting with these two big bruisers – not too old, in their twenties, maybe, but big guys. One of them is tall and tough looking, with a wicked-looking smirk and narrowed eyes, but the second guy’s clearly the enforcer. He’s _huge_. Biceps half as big as Alec’s head, shaved head, tough-guy face.

Shit, what _has_ Nana gotten herself into?

“Alec, come on down here already,” Nana says briskly. “I see you peeping there.” 

Alec comes down. “Hi, I’m Alec Hardison,” he says in his best polite-to-meet-you voice. The one you use when the Child Protective Services people come around looking to start shit.

The big guy barks a laugh. “Oh, man,” he says, shaking his head. “Still got ‘em trained up in case the foster squad comes looking around?”

“Naturally,” Nana sniffs, but she’s smiling. She’s _smiling_.

Alec guesses these guys can’t be too bad. 

“Alec, this here troublemaker’s Mick Rory,” Nana says, nodding at the big guy. “And the one hogging all the cocoa is his partner, Leonard Snart.”

“Nice t’meet you, kid,” Snart says, holding his hands protectively over his cup of hot chocolate. “And Etta, you can’t blame me – nowhere else makes it right.”

“I make it out of a box mix like everyone else, you little idiot,” Nana says.

“Yeah, but you make it _better_ ,” Snart says. "You never forget the mini marshmallows."

“C’mon, Etta,” Rory says. “You gotta admit, someone actually liking what you cook’s a first.”

“You little fink!” Nana exclaims, grinning. “You said you liked my tuna casserole.”

“Etta,” Rory says. “ _No one_ likes your tuna casserole, and you _know it_. You make that as a _punishment_.”

Alec finds himself nodding along. He _hates_ tuna casserole. It’s – _unimaginable_.

Nana laughs, a big deep belly laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Just maybe. Anyway. Alec, Mick here used to be one of my foster kids, way back when.”

Alec’s shoulders relax.

“He’s the one who keeps mailing all the goddamn child-friendly cookbooks,” Nana adds, sending Rory a pointed glare.

“Oh thank _god_ ,” Alec says immediately, because he’s been living off of one of those cookbooks for, you know, the last year or so. Ever since one of the other kids taught him how.

“Alec Hardison, you little -!”

“Sorry, Nana,” Alec says. “When they’re right, they’re right. The tuna’s the worst.”

Nana rolls her eyes. “Oh, I see you’ll all be great friends,” she says, looking pleased. “Alec, Mick and Leonard are here to take you to that cyber-security convention that you’ve been talking about.”

Alec’s jaw drops. “ _Really?!_ ” he says. It being all the way in Chicago, he hadn’t thought Nana would ever agree for him to go, even if he could probably finagle his own plane ticket with the right access codes.

“Hell yes,” Snart says.

“ _Language!_ ”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Snart says. “Heck yes.”

Nana clears her throat.

“…hey, yes?”

“Better,” she says. “Now don’t you two teach the boy too many bad habits.”

“Not too many, Etta,” Rory says virtuously. “Only a few.”

Nana shakes her head. 

Alec heads out with them. They’ve got a pretty sweet van, plenty of space to shove stuff in. Hell, he could fit his whole computer rig in here, have it be mobile…well, not everything, the desktop monitor would be a squeeze, but he could definitely put a few CPUs in…

“Thanks for taking me,” he says, because he knows how to be polite for real.

“We were going anyway,” Rory grunts from the driver’s seat. “Len’s a goddamn geek for the hottest new security systems.”

“So you work in security?” Alec asks Snart.

Snart blinks. “Uh,” he says. “No. But it’s… _relevant_ …to my job.”

Alec frowns. “What job’s that?”

“We’re thieves,” Rory says.

“Oh,” Alec says. “Wait, _really_? Like as a full-time job? That is _so cool_!”

"Man, Etta's gonna _kill_ us," Snart says.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_3\. the Heist_

“You know they actually left a _footprint_?” Len says.

“No way,” Parker says. “A whole print?”

“Yep. Boot match and everything.”

“And they call themselves _professionals_.”

“I know, right? Total disgrace.”

“You heard about – what’s-his-name, over in San Francisco?”

“Which _one_?”

“The one with the hat.”

“Oh, yeah, I know him. What about him?”

“He tried to use the bird trick, you know, for the ducts? But he used a _parrot_.”

“A _parrot_? Why the hell would he use a parrot?”

“Place was right next to an exotic bird shop. Guess he thought it’d be more authentic.”

“Still, a parrot? Wasn’t he worried it’d start talking?”

“Exactly what happened.”

“In the ducts?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. How are these people even calling themselves thieves?”

“Are you two going to come _steal this thing_ or are you going to sit around and make friends?” Mick interjects. “I know you’re both friends-of-Archie or whatever your goddamn club is called, but this job isn’t going to steal itself!”

Len and Parker look at each other. They’d already agreed earlier that Parker would take the box of cash, while Len and Mick would make off with the two paintings.

Their look is of perfect understanding. 

“You seem to be doing just fine,” she says.

“Good work, Mick,” Len says. “Carry on.”

“I hate _both of you_.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_4 – the Hospital_

“You’ve got a lot of bandages,” the kid says.

He’s been sneaking into Mick’s room these last few days; he’s in the ward right upstairs, and Mick is in the closest room next to the stairs.

“Yeah,” Mick says, because it’s true. “You’ve got no hair.”

“Yeah,” the kid sighs.

“Good look,” Mick adds. “Like me.”

The kid brightens. “Yeah!”

“What’re you here for?” Mick asks, though he can guess.

“Cancer,” the kid says. “You?”

“You know how your parents tell you not to touch fire?”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t listen.”

The kid giggles. “My name’s Sammy,” he says. “Sammy Ford.”

“Mick Rory. Nice to meet you.”

“You too!”

“How old are you?”

“Eight. And you?”

“More than eight.”

Sammy beams.

“Sam!” a voice calls from the hallway. “Sam!”

Mick eyes the kid. “I think someone’s cottoned onto your jailbreak,” he whispers. “The cops are on your tail.”

Sammy giggles again. “It’s my dad,” he whispers back. “He doesn’t like me leaving my room – but it gets so _boring_!”

Mick nods knowingly. “Dads,” he says. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”

Sammy covers his mouth with his hands.

His hands are very skinny.

“Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?” Len’s voice snaps out.

Mick blinks. He didn’t realize that Len was still here – he’d thought Len would’ve left already – he'd said they were over -

“My son – he’s gone missing –” 

The other man’s voice is tense and stressed. Presumably Mr. Ford.

“And that gives you the right to be barging into other people’s hospital rooms?” Len shouts. 

He’s _shouting_.

Len never – Len isn’t really the shouting type. He must be incredibly stressed, well beyond normal levels.

Hmm. That probably wasn’t good.

“You should go rescue your dad,” Mick tells Sammy.

“Rescue him?”

“The other man out there? His name’s Len,” Mick says. “He doesn’t get angry easy, but he’s probably about to punch your dad in the face.”

Sammy’s eyes go wide and he scrambles to his feet, but he’s grinning. 

He dashes out Mick’s door.

Not fast enough, though; there’s a familiar thud a second later.

“Daddy!” Sammy giggles. “You’ve fallen on your butt!”

Mick puts his head back on the pillow and grins.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_5 – the Internet ___

_That’s not how it would work at all!_ Mick typed angrily. 

_It damn well would!_ the other guy posted his response within minutes.

_Using dynamite like that will only flash-fry it_ , Mick wrote. _Not braise it. You’re delusional._

_What do you think would work, then???_

_If you only have dynamite –_

“Are you on that cooking forum _again_?” Len asks, looking over Mick’s shoulder.

“Someone’s wrong on the Internet,” Mick grunts. “Gotta put him in his place.”

“Mick,” Len groans. “It’s not that important. No one _cares_.”

“I care,” Mick says stubbornly. “And this guy’s wrong.”

“Because obviously this is the most important thing we could be doing right now,” Len grumbles. “Wait – are you arguing about _dynamite_?”

“Yep. Braising beef.”

“You’re nuts. Both of you.”

“Hey, if it’s the only thing available –”

“It’s never going to be the only thing available, Mick.”

“You never know.”

“Mick –”

“Len.”

Len rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Have fun.”

“I’ll make you something nice later tonight,” Mick says dismissively.

“I can think of a few nice things,” Len purrs.

“ _Later_ , Len.”

Len grumbles and wanders away.

_You conceding defeat?_ The other guy had written.

_No because you’re obviously wrong_ , Mick replies. _Have to plan dinner though. Without dynamite, unfortunately._

_I’m making leg of lamb – rosemary rubbed, pecan encrusted. Served with a side of garlic whipped mashed potatoes, maybe some asparagus in some balsamic vinegar._

_Sounds great_ , Mick writes because fair's fair, and it did sound good. _Unfortunately, my boy’s got the taste of a demented infant. He likes boxed mac and cheese._

_Jesus. I’m sorry._

_I’m working on it._

_Lemme send you my lamb recipe. Might convince him._

_Thanks_ , Mick says, oddly touched. _I’ll send you my chicken and bread recipe in return._

_Chicken and bread?_

_Bread toasted in the drippings of the chicken, chicken slathered in duck fat, roasted over high heat – trust me, it’s good._

_Okay, I’m intrigued._

Mick grins. _My name’s Mick_ , he offers. _Send me a private message._

_I’m Eliot_ , the other guy writes. _Nice to meet you._

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_\+ 1 - the Bar_

“You’re cheating somehow,” Nate says.

“We're both cheating. I’m just better at pool than you are,” Len corrects, amused.

“Now, boys, no need to fight,” Sophie says.

“Yeah,” Parker pipes up. “Leave that to Mick and Eliot.”

“We’re not fighting!” Eliot says. “Mick’s just _wrong_.”

“ _I’m_ wrong? Ideas like that, I’m amazed you know the right side of a spatula –”

“Why I ougha –”

“You could keep arguing,” Hardison interjects. “ _Or_ you could try my new beer.”

“Fighting,” they both say at once.

“Spoilsports," Hardison says, amused and filling up cups with his newest concoction. He knows they'll try it regardless of what they say.

“I think Mick and Eliot just need some way to blow off some steam,” Sophie opined. “When’s the last time you got into a real fight, boys?”

“Too long,” Eliot grumbles. “All the cases keep resolving without ‘em.”

“Not too long for us,” Len says. “Mick, you punched that annoying guy just two weeks – in New York, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mick says, and smiles. “It was great.”

Eliot snorts. “One guy’s hardly a satisfying fight.”

“No, this guy was a real prick – like, you wouldn’t even _believe_ –”

Len’s nodding along. “Interpol,” he says. “Never trusted ‘em. This guy especially; he had a slithering sort of manner to ‘em…he was good, though, real good...”

“Wait, Interpol?” Nate says, straightening. “Mick, you punched an annoying but competent guy from Interpol two weeks ago? In New York?”

“Weren’t you in New York around that time, Nate?” Hardison asks.

“Yeah,” Nate says, starting to smile. “Yeah, I was. And Sterling had a black eye.”

Len snaps his fingers. “That’s the guy.”

Eliot turns to Mick. “Tell me you have pictures. _Please_.”

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Mick says.

“You’re the _best_.”


End file.
